


Fractions

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder and Sylar meet up after being on separate missions for the Resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractions

Months, weeks and days have been counted down in an internal calendar ever since the end of the last meeting. Anticipation for today is ripe in the minutia of fractions of seconds that rapidly click the moments away. Sylar is single-minded in attention, something he is certain Bennet notices despite relentless chatter about the newest mission on the table. He gathers that Bennet's endless wordiness is a vain attempt to convince himself he is still the controlling force over something they both know he really has little say over besides initial suggestions of strategy and information delivery.

Silenced admissions remind Sylar that if he were truly as lone a creature as he purports to be he would not be here with Bennet or involved in any ragtag Resistance. He may still work with them as some independent element but he would not be compromising himself to live within their set up. Sylar's being here is the influence of another independent factor altogether, even if that factor is oblivious or purposely ignorant of the balance of power carried within.

Coming to a stop in the motel's parking lot Bennet starts to mention picking up coffee from the attached restaurant but Sylar is already on his feet, briskly approaching room #05. He pounds on the door and Peter answering it only serves to aggravate his eagerness.

"Where's Bennet?" Peter asks coolly in a greeting that has become standard for them with its lack of formalities.

"Getting coffee," Sylar answers as he pushes his way into the unsurprisingly seedy looking suite. A night in Montana, all alone except for the sound of the man sleeping in the room next door, flashes like a subliminal message in his mind.

Peter shuts the door while Sylar makes a mental note of the two messy beds. A smile graces his face at the implication but he is quick to mask it with apathetic indifference as he stops by the dresser drawer cabinet with what seems to be a twenty year old television on top and pretends to show an interest in Peter's existence.

Sylar's eyes narrow at the bemused expression on Peter's face as the observant man's eyes glance to the beds and then back to him. Parkman's ability springs to mind and Sylar quickly wipes his blank after shouting a silent, _'Fuck off.'_ Peter smirks and Sylar readies a much more vocal retaliatory threat on the tip of his tongue when the bathroom door clicks open and calls both their attention to the back of the room.

Sylar's eyes widen at the sight of a freshly showered Mohinder, naked except for a pair of well worn blue jeans hung low on his hips and the top button undone as if he had simply forgotten all about it. Roughly rubbing a towel through his wet curls to soak up the excess water Mohinder's attention is on the floor as he asks, "So what time should they be here?"

Sylar's eyes are too busy traveling Mohinder's form to announce his presence. More lean than muscled; Mohinder's body wears the leftover dew of water droplets that coat a glistening sheen over his brown skin. Dark hair is matted to his chest, trailing low towards his pants and Sylar takes in the miniscule in and out movement of his stomach as he breathes.

A couple of steps forward and Mohinder tosses the towel in his hands to his bed and looks up only to come to an abrupt stop when Sylar's eyes meet his. Mohinder's disheveled look, complete with mussed hair and unswerving eyes, catches Sylar's breath in his throat.

"They're early," Peter's voice shatters the staunchly insular manner and Sylar pushes his hands in his pockets to connote an air of disinterest. His eyes never leave Mohinder's while he self-consciously does up the button of his pants and then walks over to the armchair by the bed and picks up a white t-shirt.

Mohinder's eyes move past Sylar's to Peter and they exchange a look that Sylar finds difficult to break down. Mohinder turns his back to them and pulls the shirt on over his head. Sylar stands mesmerized at the tensing of muscles on Mohinder's back as he stretches and shifts the shirt into place. Turning around he resettles his eyes on Sylar while also running his hand through his hair to push it back from his face.

"I'm going to help Bennet with the coffee," Peter says too loudly. "If we leave him alone too long he may pull a gun on someone—you two can catch up."

Sylar looks over his shoulder at Peter who is holding the door half open. A pause in his step and Peter returns Sylar's watchful gaze. He gives Sylar a knowing smile and, without breaking eye contact, nods in Mohinder's direction. "I can read his mind too," he says before stepping outside and closing the door behind him.

Looking back to Mohinder, Sylar sees a slight flush to his face as he uses his feet to kick his shoes to the foot of the bed. Mohinder focuses his attention on the mundane task of sitting on the bed and bending over to pull his socks up, then slipping his shoes on. One raised leg at a time Mohinder rests his foot on the bed and ties his laces, shaking his head back to toss wayward curls out of his eyes.

"What did he mean he could read your mind too?" Sylar asks barely masking the want in his voice and he takes a step in Mohinder's direction.

"Nothing. He's just being troublesome," Mohinder replies dismissively as he sets his foot back on the floor and looks up.

Eyes steady, Sylar maintains his forward momentum. He thinks about sitting on the bed next to Mohinder but decides against it, deeming it too early for something he desperately wants but fears derailing prematurely. Instead he half sits on the edge of the cabinet directly across from Mohinder and lightly grips the wooden edge on either side of his body.

Mohinder rests his arms on his legs and asks, "How are things with Bennet?"

"Typical," Sylar answers. "He likes to believe he's keeping me in check and I like to play up his false sense of power."

"Until the time comes to rip it out from under him?" Mohinder suggests intuitively and Sylar murmurs a contained laugh.

"It's the only way he'll ever learn," Sylar finishes the sentiment without emotion. He is appreciative of how easily they step back into their sarcastically knowledgeable repertoire, but being this long apart with only his thoughts to encourage and dissuade his cerebral moves has rendered business speak the last thing he wishes to waste their time on.

Seeming to sense this Mohinder leans back resting his upper body on his elbows and the short sleeves of his shirt are redefined in the flexing of his biceps below the fitted material. It is a move Mohinder has played once before but uncertainty had gotten the better of Sylar and whatever he thought might be happening turned into nothing more than a casual gesture of comfort. He does not plan on making that mistake again, yet standing at the precipice of something so significant, so urgently wanting, plays out unattainable expectations in a pressed grip into the wood. Sylar is certain a permanent reminder of his existence in this moment is now etched by way of a fingernail indent into the furniture.

Looking at the man leaning back in front of him there is nothing Sylar would like to do more than crawl his body over top of Mohinder's and take his lips in his own, urging the long awaited completion to a dance they have been doing for years; the likes of which feel like a lifetime.

Sylar wants to run his hand from Mohinder's face down to the bottom of his strikingly contrasting t-shirt, lifting it slightly to trace his fingers across smooth skin and course hair. He senses the ache of desire to feel Mohinder's hand on the side of his face as he undoes Mohinder's jeans and slides his hand over top stiffening flesh, sharing his breath while stroking him to the edge. He imagines Mohinder's hand rubbing him through his pants, matching the rhythmic beat as they speed up to the end.

Not caring if it sounds overly sentimental Sylar thinks about them coming together, panting in each other's mouth and sputtering in each other's hands. Sealed with a kiss. In his fantasy he imagines whatever he wants and then Mohinder would roll them over, pinning Sylar below and say with a grin—

"Sylar?"

Snapping to attention Sylar finds Mohinder eyeing him with a vaguely confused expression. Looking down and seeing himself reclining suggestively (intentionally?) for the first time, Mohinder slowly sits back up. Before Sylar can say anything Mohinder looks back at him, this time with a more pensive expression in a smoothed brow and pressed lips like has just figured something out.

And like that the moment is gone.

"Peter's convinced that Bennet is withholding information," Mohinder shares as he rests his arms on his legs and clasps his hands together. "He's expecting a sudden detour to our plans."

Keeping cringing disappointment under guard Sylar forces a smile and says, "Would you expect anything different."

Gingerly, Mohinder asks, "Do you know anything?" while his eyes search Sylar's, shifting side to side.

Work talk coupled with Mohinder's apparent retracing of two steps back rankles Sylar's personal defeat and, much more curt than he intends or has any right to be, he snarks, "I can't read minds."

Mohinder stills at the sudden rebuke then calmly begins, "I know. It's just…I…Peter—,"

"Then send Petrelli to spy on Bennet!"

Sylar hops up from the cabinet and steps towards the bathroom feeling Mohinder's eyes on him. "Petrelli can read minds—Petrelli can fly, he can teleport—Petrelli can heal," Sylar rants fervently and the squeak of the bed turns him around to face Mohinder who is now standing.

One raised arm meant to subdue and Mohinder firmly states, "Relax. It was just a question of what else we may be getting into."

Deep breaths infiltrate Sylar's body bringing with them the perceptiveness that his normally buried emotions are colouring his quick burst of aggressive deflection with Mohinder. Unable to take what he wants, to move from consuming daydreams into flesh and blood reality, he feels an impotency of action further heightened by the increasingly close relationship that Mohinder shares with Peter. Sylar hates showing a competitive hand regarding the younger Petrelli, especially when he comes across as some underdog, but Mohinder is no stranger to his animosity and so hiding his dislike is not a top priority.

Sylar rigidly sticks his hands in his pockets and glances at the room door then back to Mohinder. "If there's anything, I'm sure Petrelli will be finding it out right about now."

Mohinder's shoulders relax at the acquiescing tone and he offers up a small smile with the corners of his mouth diminutively turned up. "Peter can be good at getting people to…reveal themselves," Mohinder jokes quieter than normal in tentative steps.

Sylar cannot control the grin that brightens half of his face under still moody eyes. He immediately gets the double meaning in seemingly innocent words. Just as Peter's numerous abilities allows him to read people in a multitude of ways they have also resulted in people showing their uncensored dislike for him, point blank.

"A blessing and a curse," Sylar muses thoughtfully and Mohinder answers with a soft spoken, "I would think so."

"It can't be all that bad. He hasn't driven you away," Sylar observes, walking back towards Mohinder.

"Mind control," Mohinder shares conspiratorially, stopping Sylar's steps while a startled look takes over his face. Seeing the reaction Mohinder shakes his head to indicate the comment is little more than a bad joke on his part and Sylar takes a seat on top of the cabinet again.

"I know how to handle Peter. I understand his intentions—for the most part," Mohinder says honestly. "There are certain things he gets."

Irritation twitches Sylar's right eye and he turns his face away from Mohinder's gaze. He hears Mohinder sigh.

"But it's not like he has much to offer by way of theories on evolutionary imperatives or an overall scientific design," Mohinder goes on catching Sylar's curious eyes. "He's more…emotionally driven."

Endless conversations that compacted hours into each other, that flowed through the enveloping darkness of midnight road travels and too impersonal motel rooms, bring a warm heat to Sylar's skin from the rushing blood below and he sarcastically cracks, "Because you're not driven by emotions at all—cold and calculated, that's you."

"Point taken," Mohinder smiles, folding his arms across his chest, and takes a step towards Sylar. "Still, analytical discussions have always been more of our thing."

Sylar glances down at the floor then back up Mohinder's body and shrugs his shoulders. "Bennet likes to hear himself talk at people."

"Funny—according to Peter I like to do the same thing," Mohinder self-deprecates with a faux pensiveness and Sylar lets out an abrupt laugh.

"It does sound better when you do it though," Sylar admits eliciting a wide smile from Mohinder.

"It's the accent—always the accent—it works every time," Mohinder says in a hushed voice as if revealing a confidential secret. Stepping closer he gently but purposefully grasps Sylar's right bicep with his left hand, letting his gaze linger a second longer than a general look, before turning around to pick up his messenger bag from the chair near his bed.

Watching after him Sylar feels a serene relaxation flood his body and he suddenly realizes what has happened. All this time Mohinder has not been letting him off the hook or giving him some out based on a one-sided mis-communicated misunderstanding. Mohinder has not been ignoring uncompleted gestures or suggestive words that have built upon one another over time leading to nowhere.

Instead Mohinder has been giving them—Sylar—a build up. Patiently he as reestablished their familiar connection. Carefully he has deflated the debilitating paralysis of overwhelming nervousness, of unparalleled anticipation, of long simmering want. Mohinder has unlocked the door and left the rest up to him.

Understanding the immensity of what has occurred Sylar's pull towards him reconfigures as something unbreakable and insistent. What courses through his veins is new and absolutely real. Standing up he takes two steps forward and says, "Mohinder?"

Tugging the bag's strap across his shoulders Mohinder turns around and says, "They'll be back soon."

As if on cue the room door opens and Peter leads Bennet in, hot drinks in both their hands. "It looks like we have a pit stop to make on the way to Ebrahim's," Peter announces to Mohinder in a tone that says _'I told you so'_ while handing him his drink.

Bennet walks over to hand Sylar his drink before turning around to shut the room door, ensuring the outside world does not listen in on covert plans. Officiously Bennet launches into a lecture about a subversive Company double agent named Adethe Botha who is back in the country under suspicious circumstances. Bennet reminds them that she is dangerous but insists she holds information about Project Sienna that would prove vital to the Resistance's defense and attack strategies.

Sylar only half listens as Bennet's voice fills up every ounce of empty space in the room. Sipping his drink, Sylar's mind is afire with Mohinder and the most vibrant pulsation of his nerve endings. What had been nothing more than some unfathomable conceit, now shows edges dipped in reality.

A glance to the side and Sylar sees Mohinder listening intently to Bennet, nodding over suggestions regarding interrogation techniques as if that information is of the utmost importance. Even in distraction Sylar knows that he and Mohinder could handle Adethe in one hour, tops, and be on their way to far more pertinent matters; it was something they had perfected at one time although now the reward is far more worth the effort.

Attempting to feign some interest in work matters, Sylar's eyes drift over to Peter who keeps shooting him annoyed glances over his interrupting thoughts that are clashing with Bennet's authoritarian words. Sylar sends a _'mind your business'_ glare by way of focused eyes and a quirked eyebrow, and then rests his attention on Bennet who is finally finishing up.

"It shouldn't take you two that long and you can meet up with us by dinner time," Bennet informs Peter and Mohinder while he offers a nod to Sylar that it is time to head out.

Mohinder steps towards Peter, and Sylar's voice declares an alternative. "No offense Bennet, but eight months with you entitles me to a break. Mohinder and I will handle Adethe."

The indisputable tone of firm decisiveness draws attention away from the more intimate revelations that guide his actions. From the corner of his eye Sylar senses Mohinder turn to look his way while Bennet, confused at such an unprompted edict, reactively dismisses it until Peter jumps in with an unexpected, "Have you seen Claire lately?"

Her name said out loud drops an awkward silence on all of them and Bennet addresses Peter with a stern, "There are some things we need to discuss." Bennet looks between Sylar and Mohinder before seriously questioning, "Mohinder?"

"It's fine," Mohinder replies unaffectedly and tosses a brief glance Sylar's way. "I know how to handle him. Besides it sounds like you two have some personal issues to go over."

Sylar silences his smirk at how quickly Mohinder plays the necessary role of the reluctant adversary in front Bennet, picking up on Sylar's lead. Almost forgotten is Peter's compliance. However the shared look between Mohinder and Peter tells Sylar that any perceived assistance on Peter's part is for Mohinder alone, based on something understood between them. Before today such a realization would have conjured forward a forceful anger but added awareness with the most recent turn of events calms emotional overreactions and Sylar considers being alone with Mohinder, work wise and otherwise, for the first time after a conflict-riddled imposed reassignment.

"Okay then," Bennet agrees albeit with trepidation. "Be careful…we'll meet you at 1900 at the point."

Following him out the door Peter looks over his shoulder and remarks with a taunting candidness, "Play nice."

Alone again Sylar raises the beverage to his lips but lowers it a few seconds later without taking a sip. "We should get going too," Mohinder breaks his concentration.

"So we can get it over with?" Sylar jokes and finds himself caught in Mohinder's unwavering gaze.

"So we can get the Adethe interrogation over with," Mohinder specifies with the not so hidden meaning that the faster she is dealt with the more time they have to themselves before meeting up with Bennet and Peter.

Confidently stepping into Mohinder's space Sylar rumbles lowly, "I'll drive," with his right hand stretched out palm up.

"You're a terrible driver," Mohinder smiles and places his drink in Sylar's hand instead while stepping closer to him. Tilting his face upwards and reducing his voice to a guttural hush Mohinder says, "I prefer you in the passenger seat."

Mohinder's brown eyes pool into Sylar's and he can feel the faint body shift of Mohinder's breathing so close to him. "That's what you say," Sylar stresses the suggestive connotation, firmly gripping Mohinder's drink.

Eyes dancing with amusement Mohinder jests, "Are you calling me a liar?"

Waiting a moment Sylar softly replies, "It depends on what comes next."

The long held gaze transcends the limits of barricading walls, weighted words and the constraints of minutes and hours. Stepping back Mohinder levels knowing eyes at Sylar and says, "Then let's stop wasting time."

Sylar watches him walk away and then follows behind with an appreciative lustful concentration written in the growing black pupils of his eyes and the small part in between licked lips upturned at the corners.

"I couldn't agree more," Sylar says under his breath, a brisk step to his stroll. 

 

 


End file.
